


The Bow of Jonathan Turned Not Back

by neverfaraway



Series: Six Proverbs to Live By [1]
Category: Christian Bible (Old Testament), Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Compliant, Castiel Deals With Having Human Emotions (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Episode Related, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Episode: s14e14 Ouroboros, Season/Series 14, When Is It Not With These Two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverfaraway/pseuds/neverfaraway
Summary: Episode coda for 14x14 'Ouroboros'.The Winchesters hold three days of funerals. Castiel, remembering his time protecting another righteous man, attempts to have a long overdue conversation with Dean.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, David | Dāūd/Yehonatan | Jonathan
Series: Six Proverbs to Live By [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859959
Comments: 8
Kudos: 97





	The Bow of Jonathan Turned Not Back

It takes three days to burn the bodies. 

With Michael destroyed, a wave of Jack's hand makes the blood on the floor, on the chairs, the blood tracing crimson lines on the illuminated map, blink out of existence; Castiel is too tired to make the appropriate noises about not using his powers until they can be sure he is himself once more, but he lays a hand on Jack’s shoulder to prevent him from intervening further. He knows, by now, that there is reason behind the human rituals of mourning. 

There is a smell like ozone and bloodshed in the air. Castiel has inhabited the battlefield for as long as he can remember. When God anointed Saul, it was Gabriel who carried the message to Samuel and bade him seek out a king for the Israelites. Castiel watched him go and knew that this was why God had led the humans to set sail from Caphtor in their ships in the first place, for when Saul waged war on the Philistines, it was Castiel who stood watch upon the field of battle: in their opposition to the Philistines, the Israelites were united, purposeful. It brought Castiel joy to see them celebrate victory in God’s name. He stood by as Saul’s son crept into the Philistine camp; he reported the boy's deeds to his superiors with satisfaction.

Yehonatan was every inch the son of kings: he was headstrong and beautiful, and yet, for all his gallivanting into enemy territory and making merry with his men, he had no true companion, nor any wife. Castiel bore witness to the first time Yehonatan set eyes upon the man with the lyre, whom God had bade Gabriel anoint as the next king, and he understood that this was God’s will: that Yehonatan’s wildness be tempered in this way. And Yehonatan yearned for Dāūd, while Dāūd cared only for the coming fight against the Philistines, and at Elah Dāūd struck down the giant Golyat. Castiel watched over this and saw that Dāūd’s faith in God was staunch; here was the good man that God had sent Castiel to protect.

After the battle, when the Philistines had been routed and the remnants of their army pursued to the gates of the city of Gath, the Israelite army returned to Gibeah, and Dāūd was feasted as a hero. Castiel watched this and approved of Dāūd’s piety when he tossed the giant’s head at Saul’s feet and hailed it as God’s victory. 

Later, in the darkness of a room deep within the palace, Castiel observed the way that Yehonatan, clad in his armour, still dusty from the road, knelt at Dāūd’s feet. He saw, uncomprehending, that Dāūd’s hand trembled when he laid it upon Yehonatan’s bowed head; he watched as Dāūd helped Yehonatan to shed his armour, and as Yehonatan wiped the sweat and dust from Dāūd’s brow with a cloth dipped in wine vinegar. 

In all the years that Castiel stood watch over Dāūd, he understood him best upon the battlefield. It was there that his love for God sang the loudest; in the times he shared with Yehonatan, in the song he sang for Yehonatan after his death, Castiel saw nothing he could recognise. The weight of a sword in his hand and blood soaking into dust: that was what Castiel knew.

The sound of someone softly crying recalls him from memory. 

Sam is staring at Maggie’s ruined face, looking ready to vomit; Dean is wiping shaking hands on the back of his jeans; Jack is beside Castiel, his wings folded away, no longer burning with an archangel’s consumed grace, and he is saying _Rowena_ , in a tone of great distress.

The witch is slumped on the steps where Michael abandoned her, her face a mess of mascara and blood, most of which Castiel does not think is hers. There are tears rolling down her cheeks as she gazes about her at the gruesome tableau that charts Michael’s atrocities.

“Rowena,” Castiel says, meaning to ascertain the extent of her injuries, but before he can go to her, she disappears entirely, with a mumbled spell and barely a glance in his direction. 

“Where did she -”

“I imagine she wishes to be alone,” he says. Jack’s face folds itself into a frown, but whatever protest he is about to make is stymied by Dean saying, low and firm: “Jack, can you go find us some bedsheets?”

  


* * *

  
Between them - he and Dean and Sam - they carry the hunters one by one to lie on the floor of the map room, where they lay them side-by-side. Sam moves like an automaton, face blank, eyes distant and angry. He lifts Maggie into his arms and she lolls there like a rag-doll, and when he sets her down he takes off his jacket and lays it carefully over her face. 

“Hey,” Dean says, in the gentle voice he only ever uses for his brother. “Sammy.”

Sam’s head bows over Maggie’s body and Castiel sees his broad shoulders heave before he hears the awful, wounded sound Sam makes. Dean’s mouth twists and he puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, silent and steadfast at his side. Castiel watches as Dean turns his face to the ceiling and blinks rapidly, his other hand clenched into a fist.

  


* * *

  
The last time Dean called out to him in prayer without meaning to, when Castiel had left the bunker to seek the whereabouts of a text he thought might help him to understand Jack’s situation, Castiel had caught snatches of Dean’s memories, even though he tried not to. He shies from this connection between them, because he knows Dean would deem it a violation, for Castiel to go shuffling through his innermost thoughts as though they were a deck of playing cards. He tries not to think on it often. When he fails, he acknowledges that Dean’s memories of Benny taste like the smoky air of Purgatory, which Castiel has learned to name as guilt. Dean thinks about his father: guilt. He thinks about every Christmas Sam had on the road: guilt. The sickly excitement of catching an older man’s eye in a bar while hustling pool: guilt. Hell: guilt; Purgatory: guilt. Cain, Crowley: guilt. 

The very worst thing about living in such close proximity with humans, with having attempted to live amongst them, is knowing that not everything - not even most things - can or ought to be fixed. It’s something Dean had to teach him, nearly a decade ago, when he would descend, summoned by Dean’s voice muttering, _Cas, can you hear me?_ when the answer was always _yes_. He would appear in a motel room, the passenger seat of the Impala, the rest room of a run-down gas station, and Dean would ask pressing questions about angels and the will of Heaven, a frown on his face and the blood of a monster under his fingernails. He’d be holding bruised ribs with one hand hidden under his jacket, or wincing from the shift of denim against a knife wound, and Castiel would sense the discomfort and the pain and be irritated by the evidence of Dean’s human frailty. Just once, Castiel attempted to heal him, distracted by the trickle of blood from the gash at Dean’s temple and the way he had cleaned it imperfectly in the filthy rest room basin, the blood oozing sluggishly while Dean demanded answers about Zachariah’s intentions. He strode across the wet floor and raised his hand and Dean jerked away from him, eyes narrow with suspicion, hands poised between them like he was seconds from reaching for his gun. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean demanded, breathing fast, and Castiel shifted on his heels, nonplussed.

“Healing you; your injuries are an impediment.”

“Fuck you, you never heard of informed consent? Back off.”

Months later, Castiel had laid a hand upon the Winchesters and carved protection into their bones. He had understood, by then, a little of the way Dean’s mind worked; that Dean had not wanted to teach himself to rely on something that might not always be his to use. It was then he had realised that Dean had always expected him to leave.

For millennia, Castiel has watched humanity break itself upon the rocks of its own free will. Weak-willed men brought low by temptation; gentle men made foolish by their kindness. Until he stood over Dean Winchester’s wretched, tortured soul in the bowels of Hell, Castiel had never known the meaning of sorrow, or sympathy. He had never wished to lay a hand upon a human’s brow and draw from them all their suffering, even if it had meant carrying it himself. He knew, now, what had made Yehonatan follow Dāūd into battle against the Philistines, and he was overwhelmed by it.

  


* * *

  
That night, they light the first of the pyres, out on the plot of land behind an abandoned farm. It’s far enough from the road that no one will question the need to burn fires all night for three consecutive days; by the third night, Sam is hollow-eyed and swaying with exhaustion. Their clothes and hair are so permeated by the smell of smoke Castiel thinks it will never leave him. They stand in silence passing the bottle back and forth as the last of the embers collapse inwards into ash. 

“I spoke to Rowena,” Sam says, eventually, as Dean passes him the bottle of whiskey. “She says she needs some time.”

“Yeah, well, at the risk of sounding like a goddamn hypocrite, she shouldn’t be dealing with this on her own."

“She says she’ll call.”

Dean shrugs. Sam passes the whiskey to Castiel and he takes a mouthful, the burn in his throat by now too familiar.

“I like Rowena,” Jack says, when Castiel hands him the bottle. “I liked all of the hunters. Maggie was kind to me.”

Castiel watches Dean’s eyes track the last of the cinders into the air when Sam stirs the embers with a stick, checking for fragments of bone. He remembers the hopelessness in those eyes when Dean had looked up at him from his knees, bloodied and betrayed; he remembers the thousand times he killed Dean under Naomi’s instruction; he understands guilt far better now than he did when they first met, and recognises its shape on Dean’s face too easily.

  


* * *

  
Sam retreats as soon as they return to the bunker. As Dean is heading for the kitchen, saying he has a burrito he’s been saving and needs carbs, he murmurs a perfunctory ’see you in the morning’ and disappears; Castiel suspects it’s in the direction of the library, where he will hunch over his laptop screen until he is so exhausted he snatches two hours’ sleep with his head pillowed on his arms at the reading table. Before he can implore Sam to attempt to sleep in a bed, Jack says he needs to tend to the snake and also slips away, and suddenly Castiel is following Dean into the kitchen, the weight of the evening’s sadness making the air between them heavy and electric, like the sky before a thunderstorm.

“Hey,” Dean says, with forced levity, “you want a burrito, too?"

The whiskey only ever makes the edges of Castiel’s consciousness hazy, but he wills it away in any case, the better to read Dean’s expression. Dean is smiling in the unfocused way that suggests he’s fallen over the soft edge of sobriety into something more forgiving; Castiel never begrudges any of them this, in the wake of a funeral. 

“I assure you, I've no designs on your burrito.”

“Good. Woulda been a shame to have to beat your ass.”

Castiel leans against the countertop and watches Dean hunt through the contents of the fridge for the leftovers of the previous night’s dinner. He’d gone out for food after the first afternoon of cleaning and wrapping the bodies; watching him do it, so careful and so severe, had made Castiel’s chest ache, the way it had intermittently since Sam told him about the time Dean had done the same for him and refused to let Sam or Mary lend him a hand. He’s sure Sam hasn’t eaten a full meal in days; it’s one more concern that he and Dean share. 

Dean puts the burrito in the oven, sets the temperature and a timer, and Castiel watches tension gather in the long line of his back. In the end, Dean turns to him wearing a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes and says, “I need beer. You want one?”

He’s about to make his escape, Castiel knows this. He’s about to rummage in the fridge and declare they’re out of booze, which Castiel knows to be untrue, just so he can make a journey to town under the guise of obtaining more, to get out of the conversation they’re about to have. It’s been brewing since Dean looked at him with such honesty and resignation over half a cup of terrible diner coffee and let Castiel truly see him for the first time in months.

The moment he knew he would see Zachariah dead was the moment Zachariah laughed and called him Dean Winchester’s pet canary, because Zachariah could not understand what it was to see in Dean Winchester’s face all of God’s hopes and plans for humanity writ large with courage and pain and endurance. 

Castiel catches his arm before he can make his getaway. This, in itself, is a violation of the rules; they don’t touch, not when they can help it. “Dean.”

When Dean turns back to him, his mouth is thin and there is a warning in his eyes. No, that is incorrect. There is fear in his eyes, as he glances down at Castiel’s hand, fingers a loose circle around Dean’s wrist, and then away, eyes darting to the kitchen door, which is still open to the hallway. There is too much silence in the bunker in the wake of Michael’s defeat. 

Castiel watches the movement of Dean’s throat as he swallows and darts anxious eyes in Castiel’s direction, landing nervously on his lips, his eyes, his lips again, the shoulder of Castiel’s coat.

“Dean,” he says, softly, and hears in it the words Yehonatan murmured through the darkness in the sultry air of King Saul’s palace. 

“What're you doin’, Cas?” Dean says, and he sounds exasperated, like the Dāūd of Castiel’s memory, tender and afraid. It makes Castiel hopeful, he realises. His vessel’s heart is beating rapidly within his chest.

Dean’s posture is defensive, for all that his tone implies he finds Castiel’s fingers curled around the soft point of his beating pulse nothing more than an irritation. He’s shifted his weight to his left leg, angled his body away, so that at any point he’ll be able to run. Castiel understands this; he wants to tell Dean how brave he has always been. He thinks of the way Dāūd lifted Yehonatan’s armour from his exhausted body, the awe in his voice when he wiped the blood from between his fingers and murmured ardent words Castiel had barely understood. 

Castiel raises a hand and lays it upon Dean’s shoulder, allowing him time to retreat. He places his thumb at the corner of Dean’s mouth, lets his palm fit itself to the curve of his cheek, warm and vital and rough from three days without a razor. Dean is staring at him with want so blatant it makes Castiel feel as though he were already aflame. 

“You don’t need to be strong anymore, Dean,” he says, because he told Dean four days ago that his strength was something he admired, which means that he is partly responsible for Dean wearing his exhaustion as a badge of honour.

Castiel is overwhelmed for a moment by the familiar feeling of powerlessness; the knowledge that, if Dean would have let him, he would have taken this burden from him and borne it for the rest of eternity in his stead. And then, curling at the back of his mind, comes the memory of Dāūd’s clever fingers on the straps that fastened Yehonatan’s breastplate at the shoulders; the understanding that there is, perhaps, one thing he can do, one offering he can make, to afford Dean some moments - some hours, perhaps - of relief. Maybe now, with the knowledge that Dean won’t be taken from him, at least not imminently; perhaps now, Castiel ought finally to be the courageous one.

Castiel presses his mouth against Dean’s in an approximation of a kiss and Dean makes a soft, painful noise as though he has been shot. His lips part around it and Castiel presses the advantage, taking Dean’s lower lip between his own, tilting his head, kissing him again, letting time stretch endlessly between them. Too soon, Dean puts a hand on Castiel’s chest and pushes him away. His mouth is red and wet, and Castiel cannot avert his eyes.

“I can’t do this right now, Cas,” Dean says, low and jagged. It is a tone of such regret that Castiel wishes he had never begun this endeavour at all. “It’s all I can do not to think about how it was me that let that bastard in. I gotta keep it together. This is all I got."

When Castiel has looked at Dean, for weeks all he’s seen is the ominous glow of Michael’s anger glimmering behind the locked door; the colour of fire on the horizon and the flickering of a candle through a keyhole. He wishes to say: _It is not your fault._

He wants to say: _but that is the point. I would have this now. Who knows what will happen next?_

Instead, he inclines his head minutely. “I understand.”

Dean’s mouth twists unhappily, as though Castiel’s answer has somehow made things worse. This was not Castiel’s intention; it is Castiel’s intention never to invoke the expression of hopelessness that has slipped over Dean’s face of late, whenever he was tired from too many hours of research and he thought Sam and Jack were otherwise occupied. Castiel would catch him with his head bowed, holding onto it as though he were trying to keep Michael inside with the span of his own two hands.

“Dean,” he says, softly. “I would very much like to hold you.”

He hopes it is not the wrong thing to say; sometimes speaking to Dean is like reciting a spell, where one clumsy word will see the whole thing end in disaster.

“Yeah?” Dean says, and Castiel is unsure whether it is in enquiry or acquiescence or desire. He draws on the wrist still within the circle of his fingers and Dean allows himself to be brought closer. 

“May I?”

Dean snorts, his eyes wrinkling at the corners, “You done treatin' me like a princess? Bring it in, you freakin' idiot.”

Castiel had expected to be enveloped in one of Dean’s warm, close embraces; the ones he bestows when death has narrowly been avoided and he wishes to ascertain the whereabouts of his loved ones’ vital organs. Instead, Dean bows his head and rests his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder, his eyes closed. He's tired; Castiel can feel it seeping from him, lapping in waves at the periphery of his grace.

He takes hold of Dean carefully, extending his arms to encircle Dean’s broad shoulders. He is heavy and defeated in Castiel’s arms; it fills Castiel with a sadness too great to measure. Dean’s breath is warm and damp, its rhythm deepening as he relaxes. He slips arms around Castiel with a sigh, tugging him closer. 

“When did you last sleep?” Castiel murmurs.

Dean grunts softly. “I’ve slept.”

“You will exhaust yourself.”

“Give me a hard time about it later, okay?”

Castiel smiles. Dean’s hair is soft against his cheek and smells of smoke. “You should make a wager on it.”

“Come on, that’s not how it goes,” Dean mutters and Castiel’s smile widens. His heart is full with the indefinable emotion it has taken him nearly a decade to name.

When the timer on the oven announces that Dean’s burrito is sufficiently warmed, Dean draws away from him guiltily, as thought he has committed trespass, but Castiel takes Dean’s face in his hands to stay his retreat. Dean’s eyes widen in alarm, but Castiel merely places two fingers on the warm skin of Dean’s brow. He heals the hastily stitched cut above Dean’s eye and snuffs out the headache that’s been lurking behind Dean’s eyes since Michael departed; Dean’s entire body sags with relief.

Castiel wonders, not for the first time, what he would have done if Dean had decided to go through with his plan to condemn himself to the Ma’lak box. He wonders what he would have said, if Dean had deigned to allow them time to say their goodbyes. ‘I will miss you' does not begin to encompass the desolation he feels at the notion of Dean locked away from him for the continued span of the universe’s existence.

Dean turns away to retrieve the burrito and Castiel pretends not to notice when he pauses before he opens the oven door to wipe surreptitiously at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. He watches him slide the burrito from its tray onto a plate and they sit at the kitchen table while Dean eats.

When Sam appears in the doorway, pale and stoney-faced, with news of a case in Arizona, Dean glances up at Castiel warily, as though he expects him to somehow betray the import of these last few quiet moments between them. Castiel says nothing, wears an expression of mild curiosity while Sam outlines the case, and Dean returns to his food, apparently relieved. 

Castiel has lived his long life on one battlefield or another. There will always be another fight, always another funeral. He wishes he had said, when afforded the opportunity: _here is the reason not to condemn yourself. Here is something to live for._


End file.
